


A Conjugal Visit

by NotAMagpie



Category: DUMAS Alexandre - Works, Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Pegging, Rough Sex, Unhealthiest relationship ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 07:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4556709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAMagpie/pseuds/NotAMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So it was for the first in a good, long time Milady de Winter found herself in a situation where defeat was the only possibility, and she hated to lose... By the end of the night, she knew he would have the papers, but she would have him." An alternate Chapter 45. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Conjugal Visit

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate version of Chapter 45 of the novel, in which Athos confronts Milady de Winter in order to warn her off d’Artagnan. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen any adaptation, so characterizations/backstory are most directly inspired by the book. 
> 
> I find the idea of Athos and Milady together fascinating (and hot). They are so ill-suited for each other, and yet, in certain ways, very alike. Needless to say, the sexual relationship portrayed here is extremely unhealthy. It’s less the acts themselves (which, while not 100% vanilla, are pretty mild) and more the attitude with which they’re approached.
> 
> Also, apologies to any history nerds about my deplorable ignorance of how 17th century clothing works.

_“The pleasure of satisfied pride was necessary to her domination. To command inferior beings was rather a humiliation than a pleasure for her.” — The Three Musketeers,_ Chapter 56: Captivity: The Fifth Day

_"You believed me to be dead, did you not, as I believed you to be? And the name of Athos as well concealed the Comte de la Fere, as the name Milady Clarik concealed Anne de Breuil. Was it not so you were called when your honored brother married us? Our position is truly a strange one," continued Athos, laughing. "We have only lived up to the present time because we believed each other dead, and because a remembrance is less oppressive than a living creature, though a remembrance is sometimes devouring._

_"But," said Milady, in a hollow, faint voice, "what brings you back to me, and what do you want with me?"_ — _The Three Musketeers_ , Chapter 45: A Conjugal Scene

***

“Now this is old times, you resorting to swords.” Milady de Winter surveyed her peril. She had been caught unawares, in her chemise and corset no less. She was unused to stumbling into danger with so little preparation; however, until just this moment she had believed the Comte de la Fere dead and in the ground where he could never endanger her again. And yet here he was, flesh and blood. He now held her at sword point, and she knew that it would be fruitless to run or flinch. She made use of the time her delicate situation gave her to recover from her shock and push down the emotions that even now were threatening to overwhelm her. 

“Do you think this is a game, demoness?” Athos snarled. He twitched the blade so it cut just deep enough to scratch the smooth skin where her neck met her chest. A tiny ribbon of blood blossomed like a necklace. Fear passed over her face before she could still it. 

But Milady de Winter had not made it so far in life, given her predilections and appetites, to shudder and cry mercy at the first sign of a strong opponent, especially not one she knew so well, as well as she knew herself herself. Instead, she pieced together this new information that the most famed of the King’s musketeers, a man simply known as Athos, was none other than her dearest enemy. 

She pressed her lips into a smile. “You don’t want to kill me, mon comte, not really.”

“That is not a gamble I would take,” said Athos.”

“To think all along the famous Athos was you—I drove you to drink. I’ll cherish that. You, the Comte de la Fere, the perfect gentleman with perfect control, and you shattered all that for love of me. Olivier, you perfect romantic.” 

“That is no longer my name.” 

“It is so hard for you, isn’t it, remembering all you’ve lost? I can call you that silly name if you’d rather. The Cardinal’s men have such funny little rhymes about you. They say you’d rather dip your cock in a bottle of port than let it know a woman. I would not have guessed it was you from hearing them, but now I see what you’ve become.”

Athos glared at her in silence. His demeanor still appeared calm, but to one who knew him so well as Milady de Winter, the fire around the edges was evident. 

She continued, “Then again, they say you won’t allow your lackey to speak; you always did love those kinds of games…but that one! Surely if a man could replace me you’d choose a prettier one.” 

“I have not come here to talk about me, or about us. I have come to warn you off d’Artagnan.” 

“d’Artagnan!” cried Milady, feeling her blood boil and red rise to her face. But she caught herself before fury could overtake her. She smoothed her features back into their calm.  “And what’s the boy to you? A son? A lover?” 

“Why, is that feeling I see in you, woman!? Jealousy? I didn’t know you cared,” said Athos, darkly. 

“d”Artagnan. The little Gascon. I had him once, you know. He was a delightful little toy. All enthusiasm and no experience. But I think there’s potential there with the right…”

Athos dropped his sword and pushed her against the wall, hand at her throat. 

“Training,” she whispered. Despite her initial shock, she was beginning to feel more confident. 

“You will leave d’Artagnan alone,” Athos growled, “You will give me the open pardon the Cardinal gave you, and you will never set foot in Paris again.” The rumbling of his voice so close to her ear sent a delightful little shiver down her spine.

There are rhythms in each of our lives that bring us comfort even when we know, at our most rational, that these rhythms will lead to nothing but misery. We cherish them each time we stumble into them, and are cast out of them as from a fever dream, cursing each moment we were locked in that familiar, fatal step. But when the song plays again, no force alive can still us. So it was with Milady and Athos. And so was the reason why Milady de Winter, in danger as she was, began to relax. 

“What will you give me if I ignore the slight this boy has brought on my honor. He appeared to me in the guise of another man, I’ll have you know. Had I desired the night to go in a different direction, it would have been a violation. Would you protect a man who violated your wife’s honor.”

“You are no longer my wife. And you have no honor.”

“I am always your wife. The church frowns upon divorce.” Milady neglected to mention that it frowned all the harder upon bigamy, and Athos had the courtesy not to remind her. His eyes met hers, clearly unimpressed. Milady continued, “What will you give me if I spare your boy, Athos?” 

“The papers, Anne. Now. Or I will strangle you, and I swear this time I will kill you.” 

So it was for the first in a good, long time Milady de Winter found herself in a situation where defeat was the only possibility, and she hated to lose. The situation was dire. The possibility of her revenge—and her life—hung in the balance. Having caught her off guard, Athos would get those papers, she was certain, and here lay the problem. Athos was perhaps the one creature on earth she was unwilling to kill to prevent her own destruction, even though he had tried to kill her once. For Athos she had given up her accent, her heritage. She had made love to Englishmen for Athos’ having brought her low. If there was anyone in the world who deserved her rage it was this man, and yet she admired him and more. By the end of the night, she knew he would have the papers, but she would have him. 

Milady gestured to the top of her bodice. “Take them.” 

Athos did not move. “From what I hear, your appetites have no dearth of men to fill them.”

Milady smiled. “But they are not you, my husband.”

“Don't try those eyes, Anne. They ceased to work their spell upon me the moment I knew your soul. You are not a tender maiden, and never will be.”

“I am of the opinion that you care not for _tender_ maidens,” said Milady. Silence hung between them thick as fog. Milady knew the proceeds of the night hung in the balance. They were poor compromisers the both of them, which is why harmony in their souls would likely only be restored with one of their deaths, and then brought to turmoil again when reunited in hell. But perhaps this time she could take _and_ give, for old time’s sake. And her life. “Please, mon comte, mon Olivier.” And she turned in his grasp, her muscles straining, and kissed him on the mouth with as much demureness as that bold gesture from a woman would allow. Just a little kiss. Just a taste.

“It will take more than a kiss to undo me,” said Athos. In a fury, he reached for her bodice, grasping the Cardinal’s pardon where it lay, tucked between her breasts. Quick as a flash, Milady pressed against the boning of her corset, trapping his hand between her bosoms. With her other hand, she held his wrist. 

“Of that I have no doubt,” she said, “But isn’t this nice? Like old times. Surely you remember, Olivier. You remember your Anne.” With her hand upon his through the cage of her bodice, she guided it to her right breast. She held it there. 

Athos let out a quick rush of breath. She could almost see his resolve tremble and slip. With her thumb, she stroked his wrist, and willed for him to remember heady nights in the  garden maze, all too close to the mud and the rose bushes, torn fabric and skin and his cries so loud. He didn’t need wine that night. Though experience had taught her that Athos without his semblance of control could surprise even her in his ruthlessness, she also knew that it was him at his most vulnerable. She pressed her thumb into the underside of his wrist. He closed his eyes. 

Milady smiled, and released his hand. “I think this chat will go longer than intended. Come, husband mine, have your lackey bring us some refreshment. No wine; I want you sober. But some bread, perhaps, and cheese. And olive oil.” 

She could see her meaning was not lost on Athos, as he removed his hand from her bosom as if shot. He no longer disguised his fury, and any who looked at him would swear that he had the rage of d’Artagnan or Porthos, not the composure for which he was famed. However, Milady only had to grin with pleasure at his anger for him to hide his ire again, and he opened the door a crack and whispered some instructions to Grimaud. 

Milady, meanwhile, sat at the vanity table, humming a wedding march to herself as she undid the pins from her long, blond hair. She shook it loose, sprinkling her curls in a halo around her head. 

“Before you take your pleasure, I will have the papers,” said Athos, returning with the repast. Milady rose from the vanity and faced him. Her spine was straight. Her chest was thrust forward and prominent. 

“Take them,” she said. 

“Very well then,” said Athos. He stepped behind her, not meeting her eye, and began to unlace her corset. Milady tried to reach behind her, to touch him. She leaned back into his arms, taking care to caress the front of his breeches with her behind. She could feel Athos tense at her movement. She would make him drunk on her. She would make him remember. As the corset dropped to the ground, Milady reached up and grasped the paper through her shift and held it there. 

“Take them,” she repeated. 

Athos again reached down the front of her gown to where the all-important papers lay. And again, Milady captured his hand through her clothing. She allowed him to take the papers. He placed them in the breast pocket of his coat. Then he lifted her shift above her head to reveal her body, all delicious curves and unblemished skin. She could see how absorbed he was by the sight of her, and wondered if the rumors were true, that he really had avoided women since her. She wondered if it bothered him to see her skin so unmarked, the fleur de lis aside. 

“I’m afraid,” said Milady, “You have me at a disadvantage. I want to see you. See if you are as I remember.”

“And how do you remember me?”

“A fine specimen,” she said, licking her lips in a way that she knew would only encourage Athos’ ire.  

She made quick work of his longcoat and shirt, pausing to admire his torso, scarred by a life spent furiously dueling as if it would bring peace. A light dusting of fine dark hair grew over the muscles of his pectorals, and his arms were all lean muscle, fencer’s arms. She traced the sinew to his strong back, and then lightly drew her fingers again to his front, taking great care as she unlaced the front of his breeches. His cock sprang free, and she reached for it. “Hello, what have we here?” she said. She lifted his testes in her hands, savoring their weight. Then she squeezed. Athos cried out. 

“Hush now. You wouldn’t want anyone to hear this, would you?” she said. “That’s better,” she said, “Now lie down.” Athos’ anger threatened to shatter his face, and he gave paused to glare before settling himself onto the bed. 

Milady made a tsking noise. “This is the first in a decade you will make love to your wife, and you have all the tenderness of a stone.” She knelt on the bed, bringing a hand to his brow to brush the strands of dark hair out of his face. “Do I no longer tempt you?” 

“At this moment I am afraid any denial would be easily refuted,” said Athos, glancing down at himself. There was silence between them and for a moment Milady was concerned that she had guessed wrong, that his melancholy had rendered joyless even the promise of their old games. 

“I do not expect you to forgive me,” she said, “But give me just this. We will play out our little battles upon each other as we always have.”

Athos nodded, an almost imperceptible gesture. “Very well, Milady. Do your worst.” 

“Oh happy reunion,”  she said with almost convincing enthusiasm, “I have just the thing for the occasion.” She rummaged through her valise and brought out a mahogany casket. Though largely unadorned, there was something in the style of the box’s silver clasp that hinted at all things desirable and forbidden. Athos could not take his eyes away. Inside, on a purple velvet cushion, lay a smooth, cylindrical device about 7 inches in length made from a polished stone that looked like jade. It had a rounded tip on one end, and the other end of it had an engraved silver handle that matched the box’s clasp. “I think you’ll find it an upgrade from our old toys,” said Milady,  “I had it made specially to celebrate my rise as the Duchess de Winter. Pity, my second husband wouldn’t let me use it.” 

She leaned over and whispered in Athos’ ear. “He thought it would make him less of a man, imagine. But, you, my husband, you’ve always been a Spartan.” She set the device and the bottle of olive oil on the bedside table and knelt upon the bed. 

“Raise your legs,” she said. To her surprise, this time Athos obeyed without pause or protest. His breathing was growing more rapid. The old pattern had at last taken hold of him fully, and he would follow wherever it led. She was surprised by how eager she was to hold his cock again, his in particular. Though there was nothing remarkable about it—it was of a healthy though average size—it was _his_. Humming to herself, she traced a finger up the underside of his cock and back down to his testes, and then worked the finger over the sensitive skin that separated them from his anus. In this position, he was uncharacteristically vulnerable, exposed to her whims. She licked her index finger and began to rub circles around the opening. Athos gasped. 

“No one has touched you there since me, have they?” asked Milady, “No need to answer. I know. I feel quite privileged.” She reached for the bottle of olive oil and dribbled it over his body. She began to massage it in, gently at first, coaxing his muscles to relax. Soon she had just the tip of her index finger inside. Athos’ face began to turn quite red as he tried his hardest not to make too much noise. 

“Good? I think so. A little dishevelment looks well on you.” She slowly worked the finger in, in no hurry. As in her matters of revenge, Milady prided herself on taking her time, and planning for the best effect. “Alright now, here comes number two,” she said, working her middle finger, slick with the oil, inside of him. 

“Damn you, woman,” said Athos, breathlessly, stiffening and twitching as Milady wiggled the fingers inside him, coaxing the muscles to relax. 

“Hush now, we are just getting started,” she said, beginning on finger number three. His anus was beginning to relax and dilate, and her fingers had more room to begin a gentle thrusting motion. 

“God in heaven,” cried Athos. 

“I’m afraid he can’t hear you,” said Milady, “He’d blush to look in on this.” She was working her three fingers in and out now to the rhythm of a song that ran through her head. She had forgotten the words; it had been so long ago. “I think we’re almost read,” she said. She removed her fingers—to Athos’ bewilderment—and wiped them delicately on a handkerchief. Then she reached for the device, rubbing its surface with oil. She made certain to demonstrate her strokes directly in Athos’ line of sight, with a teasing grin. Athos groaned.

When the device was slick, she rubbed the tip gently against his anus, working it in with all the care she had taken with her fingers. The coolness of the stone made Athos twitch and gasp, and Milady gently began to rotate it as she inserted it bit by bit. Occasionally should would rush a bit just so she could see the pained look on her husband’s face. 

“Now isn’t this better than drink? Feeling everything instead of nothing?” 

Athos could only reply in raspy bursts. “Lilith was thrown out of Eden for this.” Milady began to thrust the device into him in earnest. 

“I believe you’ll find that of all the lovers either of us has taken since our parting, this is the only coupling looked fondly upon by the church.” 

“And,” Athos panted, “You wonder why I favor the king over the Cardinal.” He grunted as Milady worked a particularly sharp thrust. 

“Please, no politics in the marriage bed.”

She gripped his cock roughly, allowing her thumbnail to just barely graze the soft skin it met. She gave it a squeeze and delighted in the sound Athos made for her. Her other hand tangled absentmindedly in her own pubic hair, slowly working its way down where she was slick and wet. She would savor this. 

She leaned forward until her mouth could touch his ear; she licked the lobe, then gave it a nip. “Each time you curse me,” she whispered, “remember who can do this for you. It is not your wine or your king or your d’Artagnan. It’s me.” 

She rose higher on her knees and settled the handle of the stone tightly between her thighs, just under her pubis. She used her thighs  to twitch the device in his rectum, eliciting a gasp. And then reached for his cock and began to stroke it in a frenzy, not taking care with her nails. Athos was reduced to whimpering. The sensations, the fullness, the pleasure and pain broke his reason down and all was the spots before his eyes, the raw nerves buzzing and humming in his system. Milady, for her part, enjoyed the delicious motion of the device on her folds, the coolness of the metal, that warned to her body temperature so rapidly, was the perfect counterpart, and she began to whimper a bit in spite of herself. Athos let out a particularly harsh groan. 

“Yes, yes good,” she said with a smile, “almost there, just a bit more now.” She worked her hand and her thighs furiously. “Now don’t forget who has brought you here, to the brink.”

“Anne,” Athos gasped, trembling and shuttering as he spurt onto his own stomach and Milady’s hand. 

“Yes,” she replied. Her right hand left his cock and traced a sticky line up his body. She eventually brought it to her mouth and cleaned her fingers diligently. “Me.” 

She settled back down upon the bed and surveyed the damage, not yet wanting to move, not yet wanting to remove the stone from his rectum. She savored the scene. Here he was, her husband, her murderer, her tormentor: so fragile, sweating, panting. His cock spent and leaking. His breaths ragged and uneven. Athos had always possessed a kind of dignified beauty that all aristocratic men strived for but so few obtained. They didn’t cary themselves quite upright enough, did not take quite the appropriate care in their toilette. It was lovely in its full glory this beauty but—oh! Here, disheveled and panting, he brought out, not a tenderness in Milady, but a fondness, as a cat nuzzles and grooms its prey. She massaged the sensitive skin around his anus, gently now. All must be soft. She eased the stone from him and placed it on the side table. The little yelp he let out as she removed it was particularly satisfying. She looked down at him, pressed a kiss to her finger tips, still slightly sticky with seed and saliva, and tapped them onto each buttock. His dark hair was plastered to his face. His dark eyes were dilated and wide. He looked a man satisfied at long last. 

“So beautiful,” she purred, and pushed his legs back down onto the bed. She traced a line along his pectorals, pinching and pulling each nipple in turn. “Never forget that I watched you unravel. And that you came apart willingly.” His gasps and flinches were glorious; oh how she’d miss having the body of a man to play with. Battle-hardened, a little worn by life, sure and molded. Too often she’d had young men, spent in a minute, or unsure men, clumsy and dull. “Sleep now, my husband.” She kissed his brow, and settled on his chest, legs locked around his possessively. 

***

When Milady awoke, still on her stomach, her hands were tied to the bedpost above her head with Athos’ cravat. For a moment her brow furrowed, but only until she remembered the events that had lead her there. A serene smile crossed her lips. _More then. Very well._ So like her husband, having to reassert dominance. Even in their happy days, when their similar appetites had made their bed a place of exploration and not a battlefield, he had insisted on ending their play in charge and domineering. Men were fragile that way, in Milady’s experience. But she could enjoy this too, this degradation, from him, if not from anyone else. The very thing that made him exquisite in his weakness made him equally delicious in his strength: both were indicative of his all-consuming need for her. She had conquered his soul so thoroughly, this perfect gentleman. 

He approached her, riding crop in hand, and a barely perceptible smile upon his lips. He was still naked, his well-formed cock at attention. Milady smirked. 

“Smug are we?” asked Athos, “We shall have to fix that.” He sat on the bed, and caught her eye, trying with the methods he had mastered of many years to cower her smile by will alone. This was so familiar and pleasant that Milady instead grinned more and did not stop until the first sting of the crop made her cry out. 

“I hear you go by Clarik de Winter now. That’s two husbands dead. Careless of you, Anne,” said Athos. 

“And yet my favorite came back to life. So I have a little luck despite my carelessness.” She shrieked as the crop came down again, harder this time. 

“Silence, woman, bane of my life,” said Athos. “I will always have the upper hand.” He let another smack come down on her bottom. “Such nice buttocks, madam, such a shame that they require such discipline.” 

“I rather think you prefer them reddened,” said Milady, gasping when the crop hit her again. The sting was delightful. 

“I prefer whatever makes you contrite,” said Athos, punctuating each word with a smack. 

Athos’ weight shifted, and Milady could only assume he was reaching again for the bottle of olive oil. She strained her head toward the night stand, and sure enough, he had oiled his hands, and was proceeding to oil his cock. She groaned at the sight. 

“Eager are we?” he asked, “You will regret that, I’m afraid.” He knelt behind her tapped his cock upon her buttocks several times before reaching down to peel back the swollen layers of her labia. “Yes, too eager,” he said, mingling the wetness between her legs with the slip of the oil coating his cock. “It is almost as if you believe I’ll be gentle with you,” he said, and the pushed in without further foreplay. “Or that you like being punished. You, the Comtesse de la Fere. You crave a little humiliation don’t you.” He moved selfishly, monologuing in this manner over Milady’s gasps. 

Milady, for her part, relished the feeling of fullness, the heat and speed and violence of it all. But she was not a woman who endured bondage for long. She preferred full control of her faculties. She wanted to touch, to bite and claw, to savor with all her senses. Nevertheless, it had been long since she’d found a man willing to be so domineering, as merciless as herself, that she was willing to go manacled for now if Athos would only continue that delightful thrusting. 

But he pulled out, and Milady whimpered in protest. But then his hands were back upon her, large and rough, flipping her onto her back. He then grabbed a knife that had come with their cheese plate and sliced her bonds. But before Milady could react, he was back upon her, pressing her into the bed. His hands gripped her shoulders hard. 

“Married, you say we are,” he told her, “Act like it.” Milady groaned. And he reached between them to reinsert his cock back into her. He was not gentle. He poured his weight over her like hatred, such so Milady could barely move, even unbound. His teeth went to her neck and collarbone, and she shrieked and screamed in both pain and pleasure. She raked her fingers down his back, drawing little lines of blood and began to whimper. She had caught up with his furious rhythm and began to thrust and squeeze, urging him on, fighting pleasure with pleasure. 

“Stop that. There will be no release for you,” said Athos, panting, “You’ve already had your fill.” 

“Two for you and one for me? Not even in our best days would I have allowed that,” she replied, and began to grind her hips in a circular motion that coaxed his pelvic bone to brush against her clit. 

Athos ceased his thrusting and pressed her harder into the bed. “Hold still,” he commanded.

“If you wanted that, you should have stuck to your lackey.” Athos slapped her face. “Or, at least, you should not have untied me.” Athos slapped her again. 

“Hold. Still.” He repeated. His cock twitched inside her, but he refused to move. He held her eyes with all his power and influence. _He is beautiful like this too_ Milady thought and cast upon her face as contrite a look as she could muster, given the circumstances. 

“My darling, let us work together, just this once. Together, I promise, it will be like nothing you can imagine.” 

“You move when I say you move,” said Athos, seemingly unfazed, “Blink if you understand.” 

Milady blinked. 

Athos resumed his thrusting, his scratching and biting. He grunted and groaned and called her his beautiful demon bride, his false Anne, fit for hell and yet given up to him. Milady lay as still as she could, longing to join in. Her nerves twitched and trembled as she cried out. “Please, please, Olivier… Athos… please.”

Athos paused. “Is that surrender I hear from my wife?”

“I surrender, mon comte,” she moaned. This was the sort of victory she could allow him. 

“But do you truly?” he asked. 

“Yes, yes please.”

Athos pulled out and kneeled in the space between her legs. His face was a mask of control. Milady made an attempt to sit up, but a gesture of his hand settled her back down on the bed. He took his index finger, licked it, as if preparing for a more gentle play, and then pinched her clitoris roughly between his fingers. Milady shrieked, headless of the neighbors.

“Is this what you wanted?” Athos asked, pinching again, “You wanted me to play with _this_.” He then blew over it, letting the chill of his breath shock her. “There are clerics who believe you should not know what _this_ is, much less want me to touch it.” 

“Then bless me, for I have sinned,” Milady whimpered. This was not the first they had played this game, and in truth it was amongst her favorites. Hidden in their chambers once upon a time had been the most marvelous devices—ah but they would make due now.

“You are sin incarnate,” said Athos, bending down to bite the tender bud he found there. Milady bit her lip to keep from screaming a second time, but Athos had latched on, applying more pressure and only letting up when Milady allowed herself to shriek. “That was very good,” said Athos, soothing the pressure with a tiny lick that softened her shrieks into moans. 

“That’s a pretty sound,” he said, “But I can think of one better.” He started back down on her labia, nibbling and sucking with intent to bruise.  Milady responded with tiny yelps. “Ah there’s the one. I always liked that one,” said Athos. As shuddering began to seize Milady’s legs, Athos lifted his head, wiping his lips with a delicate finger. This time, the pleading in Milady’s eyes was real. 

“No no, not yet,” he said, “You will allow your lord and husband to take his first.” He rubbed his cock on the new juices that had gathered between her thighs, and then plunged back in, with rough movements. As he lowered himself on top of her he said, “Very well, you may move.” 

With the skilled squeezing and rotation of the hips of Milady de Winter, it was not long before Athos again found his release, cursing, blessing her name. He collapsed on top of her, his body stilling for the moment. Milady cried out in frustration.

“Please. You have forgotten me,” she protested. 

“Say that again.” 

Anger crossed her face, but not in earnest. “Please.”

“Please what.”

“Please, my husband, my lord.”

“I would have settled for ‘please, Athos,’ but that will do nicely.” 

He reached down with his left hand and rubbed at her clitoris, first in slow circles, and then faster and faster until her body spasmed and shuddered beneath him and revealed to him was the rare sight of Milady de Winter without her guile but still in all her beauty—perhaps all the more beautiful because one could be sure it was real. Her blonde hair was dishelved, some fanned behind her head, some plastered to her face with sweat. She was flushed, her lips redder than usual and parted slightly. They brought out the rosey and violet splotches that Athos had marked her with. Her nipples stood to attention, pink and swollen on the mounds of her breasts. Athos allowed himself a slight smile as he took in the sight. For all the times he had seen her body, it was too rare that he saw her truly naked. When she had finished, he lowered himself back down upon her, gently this time, and rested his chin on the top of her head. 

They lay there together again. Milady could feel Athos’ cock softening between her thighs. There were bruises there; and probably elsewhere. What a pretty picture they must be. Milady smiled one of her rare sincere smiles, but there was no one to see it but the flesh of Athos’ neck. She nuzzled the flesh, planted a sinister little kiss on his jugular vein that made his body tense. Athos shifted, and pillowed his head on her bossom. He bit the nearer nipple—the left one—and then relaxed, closing his eyes for a moment, breathing softly in the relaxation that only comes to lovers well-used. Milady dropped a kiss on the top of his head. It was like old times but with hotter, angrier blood. She had missed this so, and all the things about them it meant. They had never been a couple for the angels to smile upon. 

A few minutes later, she broke the blissful silence. “If you didn’t worship order so, excuse the king for your friends’ sake, we could have France in our pocket,” she murmured, stroking the waves of dark hair that he draped over her breasts. Our brains, my beauty, your dignity; these are what the rises and falls of kingdoms are made of.” 

Athos lifted his head to meet her eyes. “Was that honesty I hear from you?”

“Could I succeed in lying to you? You know too much about me, and I you. We both know what we want. You just won’t let yourself take it.” 

He shook his head. “I have not your lust for power.”

“No?” Milady pointedly traced the bruises on her wrists, an eyebrow raised. 

“Kingdoms do not stir my loins.” 

“But they stir mine, and I stir yours because on this great green earth I am the one thing you cannot control—not for long. So hear me; I see the most glorious kingdom in this world inches away from my fingertips. A man, any man, could take it. With the king’s ear, the king’s purse, the king’s trust, his secrets, a man could pluck the reigns away from this petty farce we have sitting on our throne. But I am not a man, and I have not a man’s weapons. And then you…” for a moment she nearly lost control of her face, but quickly regained its serenity, “You waste your talents, husband mine, as a mere musketeer, mothering those ridiculous oafs you call friends. I suppose you could say I want to use you, yes, a little bit, but surely, it’s not so bad. You are the only man I have ever feared.” 

There was a corollary to her sentence, but she wouldn’t say it. Not ever. All the angels in heaven couldn’t pry it from her heart, and Satan himself couldn’t tempt it off her tongue. 

“You want me to take satisfaction from that?”

Milady smiled. “You do.” She leaned in for a kiss. Athos responded, as if in a trance, and did not even flinch as her teeth met his lips, drawing blood, making him wish that he were not quite so spent, and angry for wishing such. 

“I hate you with all my heart,” said Athos, settling his head back down upon her breasts.

“No,” said Milady de Winter, “It’s the need you hate. I think you like me. Adore me even.” She resumed stroking his hair with uncharacteristic gentleness. She could feel the lines of Athos’ mouth tilting toward a smile—his true smiles were perhaps rarer than even hers. 

He was the one to break the silence this time. “How are you so calm, lying with your death upon you? I will kill you, Anne, if that is your name. Do not think this has repaired anything between us. Are you so arrogant to think I don’t hate you all the more for your seduction?”

“Arrogant? Perhaps. I have been called worse than that. But, Olivier, let’s be sincere a moment. I missed you. And you missed me too.” She put a finger to his lips to silence the protest that was forming there. “Oh, shush, don’t lie. It doesn’t become you.” She kissed him for real this time, grasping his shoulders, wrapping herself around him. He clutched the back of her head, ran his fingers through her hair. He was gentle, focused, as if committing the moment to memory. It was almost like a kiss between lovers. 

The two dressed in silence. Athos avoided her eyes as best he could, but she caught him staring at the bruises on her back and backside. She could not discern whether these made him smile or grimace. She hoped for a smile; she wished she could admire them herself. Eventually she gave up on trying to read her husband and began to gather the necessary clothing that would again make her a proper lady on her way to England under the Cardinal’s protection. She gathered her skirts around her as best she could, then arranged her face into the very picture of womanly pleading. “Lace my stays,” she said. 

Athos stared at her.

“I am still waiting on a new maidservant,” said Milady, “And if I leave the room like this, everyone will know what has happened here.” Athos stepped behind her, tugging violently on her corset lacings, too tightly for it to be unintentional. Milady took the punishment with a clearly exaggerated moan that made Athos tug harder, more angrily. She tried not to laugh. When he was finished, Milady turned to face him.  

“Have your boy, Olivier, while you can keep him. He’s reckless, and his death will come. I pray it will be by my cunning if not by my hand.” 

“This will not happen again,” said Athos. 

“Alas,” said Milady mildly, as if she did not truly believe it. 

“And you will be very sorry if you are responsible for d’Artagnan’s death.” 

“I suppose you’ll have to prove that to me.” 

“You won’t enjoy it. I promise you that, my little sadist.”

“But _you_ will, and in that, I find my victory,” said Milady. She wrapped herself in a traveling cloak that concealed her relative state of undress. Heedless of her disheveled hair, she placed her hat upon her head, lifted it to salute Athos with cheer, and went off into the night to find the escorts the Cardinal had left her. 

Athos watched her leave, unable to look away. Then he sat down on the bed, his head in his hands, his eyes downcast. He could not discern how long he sat, thinking upon the scene that had just passed. And then, taking care that the order from the Cardinal was still in his breast pocket, he went down the stairs to the bar of the Red Dovecot. 

“Wine,” he called, “A bottle or two. Your best or your worst matters not.” 


End file.
